This I and me and loving you is a woodtick clinging on, hooking, sucking, calling what is going on something else, like love, the lying that goes on and on. Love changes all. That’s the fib. So I remember late in April home from Morocco and free of Islam and a cult of Peace Corps goodness, walking West on 50th and free — briefly — from all belief, prancing in the freezing early morning light over my back and shoulders like Eastern robes, washed in floods of icy air down from Dakota and the Arctic Circle. There are no Springtime woodticks on city sidewalks. It was air you could drink though, the last of Winter down from out of town, as clean as a new refrigerator and humming from the new buds in boulevard elm tops all the way down to the bottom of my chest. That morning I had anyway another thirty-one years before me of breathing in other men’s things, and thoughts even, all with the ladies’ and other things’ glad free consent, I first thought. Another lie. Only seconds, and thirds, would smear and drag it all under again, in love. Love changes all. The loving that goes on and on like a cold Spring gale in treetops. All these gutsy lies told over and over loom and gust and lunge over the remembered places, things, and all the years of munched persons. In my icy trunk and limbs are tucked away and awaiting warming up again the refrigerated leftover frozen faces of many a meal. And so innocent and smarmy as Santy Claus at home at the North Pole with a snug fireplace and a load of cats all purring indoors in love with my icebox, now I pester grandchildren for all of this attention and notice. All made up beforehand. In love.